There were two large, uneven gashes right below his knees, blood seeping through the dark denim of his jeans and soaking it in drabs, the fabric sticking to his skin. His stomach danced in waves and pulses—since the bizarro banquet with Waterman and Simsworth he’d barely been given anything to eat, and so it twisted in knots, neglected and confused.
Sam rolled over onto his side, dry gasps coming from his throat that hardly made any sound. He closed his eyes as much as he could—crusted and swollen as they were, he could only squint them half-closed. Slits of pale light illuminating dust particles swam before him like fireflies.
He imagined he was on a beach; he imagined he was by a lake. He imagined he was a toymaker in a toy factory who could make any child’s perfect toy without having to first ask them what they wanted—the joy on their faces set his heart full to nearly bursting. But then, the toys crumbled. The children grew old. The lakes and the oceans dried up.
If my heart did explode right now, it would be okay, he thought. Because I tried, I really did. What else was I going to do? Live like a zombie until the government repossessed my house not long after I signed on for a mortgage I’d never repay in a lifetime? Live inside photographs like some waking digital dream, life in 17K-pixel resolution with a supercar that cost 300,000 quid and a girl who looks like another girl I once knew but is just a proxy, one whose name I can’t even remember?
No, he thought. I don’t want any of that.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut until even the specks behind his eyelids stopped dancing, and wished away the 21st century.
You are being made sane, you are being made clean. You are being watched, you are being scrubbed, coloured, waxed, spotted and dried. A diamond in the rough, a man stronger than machine, faster than any form of transit, braver than them all.
Sam threw his half-eaten food tray across the room, swill that came at irregular intervals and was barely keeping him alive. The tray made a hollow clanging noise, flat and dead like a butter knife against a hollow tin cup. For days on end now, a monotone female voice—not unlike the voice of Jules, his holographic cleverband assistant—had droned on and on without reprieve. It was all nonsense; it didn’t mean anything. Sam felt as though his brain was turning to mush.
“Shut up!” bellowed Sam. He kicked at the sweat-soaked sheet bunched up around his ankles.
The voice boomed at him again, 2 + 2 = 5, soylent green is people. Narcs are drug users, pushers are princes and bakers are thieves. Shame on all the liars, pain and suffering upon them. They are going to reap just what they sow.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven, the voice counted backwards. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Before his eyes was now the watery, iridescent face of Janus Jeeves. Now, when the voice from nowhere spoke, it sounded like the father of the Arcana.
I told you, Foxy. I told you this would happen, the hollow vision of the charlatan said, hovering above him. You weren’t paying attention.
Why? Sam asked, if only in his mind. Why did you let this happen, if you knew?
Monkeys gots to keep looking forward, not behind.
Sam held his head between his knees. He shook violently. It had been too long since Simsworth had administered his last dose. He’d started referring to the stone-faced military man as ‘Doc’ in his head. Where was the doctor with his medicine? Nothing was real.
“You’re a horrible bastard,” Sam said to the translucent vision of Jeeves before him. “A terrible, horrible bastard. You used me to get what you wanted. Now I pay the price while you enjoy the freedom I bought.”
There is no revolution, waxing and waning Jeeves said. I made it up. I just wanted to see whether it would break a strapping young lad such as yourself. I am mad, after all, he cackled.
“What about the kids?” Sam exclaimed at the apparition. He removed a leather cuff from around his wrist, now ripped and frayed, and threw it at Jeeves. It went right through him.
Kids are casualties. Can’t be helped.
Loud, unbearably irritating dance music beat an unwelcome syncopated rhythm inside Sam’s head. It felt like needles behind his eyelids. He looked out and saw crowds staring up at him, their eyes all the same. Arms raised to him, adoring smiles on their faces. They were chanting his name, calling for the band to return to the stage and play their encore.
I’m on my way, he thought. The audience cheered as the sky above them faded from blue to red, from red to black. Their cries and cheers were drowned out by the hollow clanging of Zephyr’s war drums, rat-tat-tat-tat, like marching on the battlefield. Guitars shaped like his own, Kit’s, and Muzzy’s were shrieking warbirds flying through the sky overhead, dropping bombs onto the unsuspecting grey world beneath them.
Then Jeeves stood before them all, the general in sparkles and pearls, ready to face the enemy, his army of a million skinny underachievers lined up steadfastly behind him in countless rows.
The battle had begun.
Limbs were severed by deafening blasts, bodies torn asunder. Fourteen-year-old girls blinded in an instant, their wombs made barren. Young men on the battlefield scattered atop the glitter-covered ground, screaming in pain, tears mixing with the blood and ashes on their scarred faces. Chemical fires ablaze throughout London, through the countryside, through the open fields of Glastonbury covered in colourful tents and banners. An orgy of destruction.
You were their leader, Saint Fox. They followed you, not me, said the image of Jeeves. Now he was Dark Jeeves, dressed head to toe in black. No sparkles, no bright colours, no baubles. Nothing but his thin, drawn lips and his razor-cold eyes peering out from beneath a blackened shroud.
Welcome to the future, he said.
Welcome to the present, Sam thought back at him. Goodbye to the past.
Chapter Thirty-Six
LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND
The flat in Morden was too quiet. The Arcana seemed to have scattered like mice, hiding out in holes where no one would catch them, and Janus Jeeves pondered both the resilience and fear of the human spirit.
He sat in his kitchen eating three different kinds of curry from three different bowls. I’m losing them, he thought. Without a pretty saint to look up to, the little foxes scamper away.
Got to give them something to believe in.
He unlocked his cleverband and began flipping through photos in the FoxDen app, running a finger across each of the band members’ lovely faces: Young Zephyr on war drums, lanky and laidback Muzzy on bass guitar, that lightning fast firebrand Kit on lead axe. Saint Fox looked stunning and defiant as always, straight down from the silver streaks at the tips of his flaming red hair to the sharply angled jut of his hips. Cocky, idealistic, sweet-voiced, and up for anything. The boy had been the perfect combination of ingredients.
“It’s alright, Sammy,” Jeeves said, staring at the 3D image of the lad, moving slightly in animated hyper-realistic lies before his eyes. “Look at you, Freedom Fox. We made the kids sing again. Sing when they’d forgotten how.”
Gone were the days when the Arcana were merely a few scattered tatters amongst the many—a smattering of dreamers hosting rallies in parking lots, holding court in bookstores and warehouses, transferring propaganda throughout the digital universe.
They were mainstream now. And nothing kills the mainstream.
They would win the war; he knew it. Reports of shootings had gone down—His Majesty’s retroactively armed forces would soon return their weapons to the museums where they belonged. Soon everyone would be using GGcoin; it was the biggest thing to enter the scene since cleverbands.
He tried not to think about the bodies he missed—Sam most of all. He was a good kid. Jeeves hadn’t given up hoping that he would return.
Jeeves tapped the display twice over Sam’s face, closing the photo. He pressed his palms against one another, mentally pepping himself up. He shouldn’t feel grieved or sorry. He must find a way to celebrate, to shout to the world that the kids were free, that rock n’ roll was here to stay.
So that’s what th
ey would do.
Janus Jeeves signed into the admin account of the FoxDen app, getting straight to work.
GET CLEAN is in the palm of your hand, the sign-in page now read. After logging in, those few who passed through Benson Bridges’ security jungle unscathed would gain access to a bit of news that would tickle the pickles of anyone devoted enough to give and get the amount of information required to enter.
Saint Fox and The Independence will play again. Stay tuned for details.
The mid-sized club was packed top to bottom with nervous energy. An impressive turnout, considering the headlining band playing tonight was not even on the schedule.
But diehard fans have a way of finding out what no one else knows, at least until the next day when it’s all over the news. The night, however—the night is just for them. Got this from FoxDen. Very hush-hush. Only tell folks you know you can trust.
Backstage in the dressing room, Saint Fox paced back and forth. His wide eyes, smeared with copious amounts of kohl eyeliner, caught nervous glimpses of himself in the bulb-framed mirror. He wore a faded black-and-white t-shirt with a patterned newspaper print, and very tight, shiny black trousers. Steadying himself with one palm against the vanity, he recited the lyrics to ‘Money Dance’ under his breath, over and over.
Janus Jeeves entered on a high note, waltzing in and placing two fluttering hands upon the shoulders of his messiah.
“How we feelin’, Foxy?” he inquired.
“Terrific, just terrific,” Saint Fox replied, inhaling through his nose before turning to face the puppet master. “Now, are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked, with more than an ounce of sass and a fair amount of trepidation.
“Silencio, baby,” Jeeves said, running his fingers through the frontman’s spiky hair and twisting it so it stood even more on end. “Everything’s under control.”
“It don’t feel like it,” Saint Fox said. “Feels like we’re betraying him.”
“C’mon now, shush with that sort of talk. It’s what he would have wanted. Keep the movement going. Am I right?”
“Shit, don’t say things like ‘It’s what he would have wanted,’ makes it sound like he’s dead and he ain’t dead. He’s just hiding, I know it. I’d know it if he were dead.”
“Course he’s not dead,” Jeeves assured, adjusting Saint Fox’s t-shirt so that it hung provocatively off one bony shoulder. “We never really die. Don’t you know that?”
“Just...shut it, okay?” he sputtered, hands flailing. “I’m only doing this for him, ‘cause before he left he asked me to be Saint Fox, alright? And because I might as fuckin’ well, I’ve listened to his damned music enough.”
“Benson’s got the PA system all set up. All you have to do is move your lips and shake your hips. Band’ll take care of the rest. Crowd won’t know the difference with all that makeup on…you’re about the same height.”
“Yeah okay, fine,” he said, brushing Jeeves’ fussing hands away from him. “Let’s get this over with.”
Janus Jeeves guided the rock star out of the dressing room and into the wings.
“Knock ‘em dead, Sailor boy,” Jeeves cheerleaded, squeezing his shoulder.
The lights in the club rose from dusk blue to sunset orange. The drums sounded the alarm, raising incrementally in volume and intensity.
Saint Fox appeared from the shadows, sauntering out onto the stage. He raised his arms wide and lifted his chin to the sky, bold and defiant.
The crowd roared its approval.
Kit Alysdair had played horrendously tonight by her own standards. Guitar solos botched, backup vocals off-key, fingers ghosting the wrong chords, picking out the wrong riffs. Even her guitars had protested—wrong tuning, broken strings, amps squealing feedback against her will. Even if no one else had noticed, it didn’t matter. She’d noticed. She knew how poorly she’d performed.
I need a drink, she thought, not for the first time today, wanting badly to fuzz out the decision-making centers of her brain. Thankfully, there was always plenty of alcohol backstage. She stared at herself in the mirror of a vanity with more makeup and sequins littered across it than usual. Sailor’s stuff he brought from home, she realised. In the mirror her own eyes were sunken in and black, hair frizzy, lips red, the skin on her face sallow and stressed. She thought about how she would look in another thirty years—grey frazzled hair, thin puckered lips, eyes with no life light in them.
Stupid girl, she chastised. Superficial. She unscrewed the cap from a bottle of Jim Beam and took a long swig. It burned like sweet heaven on the way down, lighting a fire in her gut that felt like tears kept at bay, twisting them into something else—anger, lust, aggression. Anything else. Anything other than how she was feeling.
She wanted to be angry at Sailor for taking Sam’s place, angry at Jeeves for orchestrating it. She couldn’t quite manage either.
Another long sip of whiskey.
It was Sam she was mad at. She saw the way he’d been self-destructing before he went missing, hell, he’d probably gone and done something stupid to get himself caught, probably turned himself in during some drug-inspired epiphany where he figured it was the only way to clear his conscience, save his soul.
Maybe I should have gone with him to Fiji, she thought. At least then I’d know he was safe.
“Selfish bastard,” she muttered. She downed about a quarter of the bottle, then wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing her red lipstick.
“Are you talking about our dear Sammy boy?” Jeeves was suddenly in the doorway, his palms bracketed against the paint-chipped frame in a double-jointed display. “Or me, perhaps?”
“I—bloody hell Jeeves. Didn’t see you there. Give a girl a little warning, would ya?”
“Sorry to startle you, honeybun.” He took the bottle of whiskey from her, setting it down on the table. He brushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear and whispered, “Something to take your mind off the pain, eh? You know that’ll only make things worse.”
“Maybe in the long run, but it sure as hell makes it bearable now.” She tilted her head to the side and crossed her arms, a challenge on her face.
The maestro held a clever twinkle in his eye, a slow grin growing on his lips. “You need a distraction, ey girly?”
He stepped into her space, wrapping his arms around her neck and leaning in as if he was going to kiss her.
The liquor coursing through her veins making her stupid and brave. “Why the hell not?” She pulled him in, tilting her head towards him. “Show me what you got, daddy,” she said, letting her eyelids flutter closed.
Jeeves grabbed her by the chin in one narrow hand, forcing her to open her eyes and stare into his. Then he released her, dropping his arms to his sides and laughing as he shuffled away from the young guitarist.
Kit’s eyes narrowed in an instant. “The fuck was that about?”
He draped himself sideways against a chair, bony hips and elbows sticking out at odd angles. “S’ really that bad, love? Even mad ol’ Janus’s a good enough distraction, ‘cause anything’s better than what you’re feeling? Hurt, betrayal, failure, confusion, twisted lust you’d misdirect just about anywhere?”
“Fuck you,” she said, grabbing her whiskey bottle from the vanity table and placing it against her lips.
“Ah ah ah,” Jeeves shook his finger back and forth, chiding. “I’m trying to look out for you. For all of you,” he said, tisking at her some more. “Sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. It’sss not the 20th century anymore, baby. It’s a brave new world. Bigger than all of us—you, me, Sammy boy, Sailor boy. Now, we’ve got some fallout. With Sam gone, some of the kiddies are losing touch. The show tonight gave them the reassurance they needed. You know how fans are—they’ll turn on you in an instant, but when they love you, they love hard, and they’ll defend you without question.”
Kit stared at the menagerie of beads and booze on the countertop, at the ugly purple fringe lamp near the door, the j
agged crack in the ceiling, anywhere but at Jeeves. At first she welcomed the distraction. Now she just wanted him to leave.
“You’re a part of it now, in the thick of it whether you like it or not,” Jeeves said. “You gave them something to believe in that put them on the right track. They can’t do it all by their little lonesome selves—no one ever taught them how. Never knew not to buy and sell their tender little hearts to the greedy cold profit and loss diamond desert mecca that only knows how to steal.”
Kit set the whiskey bottle back down on the vanity with a clunk, avoiding Jeeves’ gaze as she headed for the door. She was sick of this. She heard music playing outside in the hall and it sounded far away.
She turned around on her heel, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. “Was it worth it?” she asked.
Jeeves shook his head slowly back and forth. “Not up for me to decide, girly. It’s up to them. For time to tell. For each to make in their own image.” Jeeves squinted, regarding her quizzically. “What do you think, eh?”
Kit hesitated for a moment. “I wanted the revolution,” she said firmly. “I was willing to pay a price. I just didn’t know it would cost this much.”
Jeeves smiled almost sadly as Kit turned and walked out of the dressing room, the heels of her black boots clicking against the linoleum.
“See you at the next show?” Jeeves asked.
Kit flipped him the bird over her shoulder, but her voice echoed back at him from down the hallway. “Always got more music in me,” she said.
Jeeves watched her go, then noticed the abandoned bottle of whiskey sitting amidst the ruins of cigarette butts and glitter on the table. “Ah, hell,” he said, and took a swig.
“I love him too, baby,” Jeeves said solemnly, picturing the perfect dream. “I love him, too.”
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 23